


Scattershot

by dishonestdreams, MistressKat, pushkin666



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Crime Scenes, Investigations, M/M, Murder, Power Dynamics, Round Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 10:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/pseuds/pushkin666
Summary: He tried to arch away, but Gene had pinned him in place with one firm hand on his shoulder and Sam frowned, ignoring the way that his heartrate had quickened, "What the hell?"
Relationships: Gene Hunt/Sam Tyler
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	Scattershot

**Author's Note:**

> Vidmeet + wine + fangirls = round robin time! This one tried pretty hard to grow a plot (I mean, we even googled stuff) but fortunately we fixed it before it got too carried away!
> 
> Enjoy?

The carpet was sticky with coagulating blood. Sam tried to avoid the worst of it, but it was impossible because _everything_ was the worst. _The whole house_ was the worst.

“Jesus,” Gene said next to him, surveying the scene.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. He made himself look at the bodies, see past the horror and figure out… angles and positions and sequence of events.

“Him.” He pointed at the body nearest to the door. “Came in, shot…” His eyes flicker the other bodies, both adult and children, and then back. “Shot the others, then himself.”

He squatted down next to the shooter and pointed to his gun. “Can you see?” he said, pointing to the gun that was lying on the floor next to the man. “I think it’s a Purdey.”

He looked up at Gene who was frowning at him as though he should know something that he didn’t. “Jesus Tyler, where did they teach you about guns?” Gene answered. “Of course it’s a Purdey. The question is where did he get it? Who keeps a 12-bore shotgun lying around?"

"I think the more pertinent question is why someone with the resources for a Purdey wanted to come to a place like this?" Sam said, with a long, assessing look around the living room. It was clean, he thought, underneath... everything, but there was worn thread on the sofas, and he suspected the same was true of the carpet. Plus, this wasn't one of the wealthiest parts of Manchester. "I'm not an expert on shotguns, but Purdey's are top of the range, aren't they?"

"Bloody hell," Gene said, his eyebrows lifting with exaggerated surprise. "Something you're not an expert in. Will wonders never cease."

Sam took a deep breath, "Can we focus on the case, maybe? Wait until later to go back to insulting me?"

Gene glanced around the room, almost dismissively. "Looks pretty cut and dried to me. He's got his head all in tizz, maybe found out she was diddling the milkman or something, who cares. Went out, drank the equivalent of the Atlantic Ocean in..." he leant over the body and sniffed deeply, "...bitter, decided it would be a good idea to come home and blow her head off."

Sam pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It did very little to stave off the headache he could feel building at the back of his skull. "And, just so I'm clear, that explains the Purdey how, exactly?"

Gene shrugged. "Stolen, maybe. We'll get Phyllis to check for any reports when we're back."

"Back?" Sam frowned. "We just got here. We've got to..."

"Yeah no, actually we don't." He grabbed Sam by the elbow and all but frogmarched him from the house. He had to admit that even the dreary rain was preferable to the stifled, corrupted air inside the house.

"We came, we saw, and now we're leaving. There's nothing here we can do. Leave the forensic boys to do their thing." Gene's face was grim, but he was still gripping Sam's arm.

Sam sighed, conceding the point. "Alright. We don't exactly have a murderer at loose. But the gun still bears following up.

“It does but not right now. Now we go back to the station or… “ He stopped and stared at Sam. “Nelson might know something. Come on, we’re going to the Railway Arms. If nothing else we can get a drink and get that image out of our minds.”

Sam followed Gene back into the car, trying not to think about what they’d just seen. He knew they had to look into the gun and where it had come from. Even in the time that he came from a Purdey was bloody expensive, so he had no idea where the shooter had gotten it. But maybe Gene was right, and Nelson could help. And no matter what, he agreed with Gene a drink would help them. Once forensics got back to them they would know a little bit more about what had happened. It would be worth speaking to Stephen Warren just to see if he knew anything. Whether he would tell them anything was another matter.

He was still tracing the possible lines of enquiry through in his head, when Gene suddenly jerked his arm, yanking him off balance long enough to turn him around and shove him backward into the car. Sam hissed as he crashed into the rain slick metal, the blunt lump of the door handle digging awkwardly into the base of his spine. He tried to arch away, but Gene had pinned him in place with one firm hand on his shoulder and Sam frowned, ignoring the way that his heartrate had quickened, "What the hell?"

"Will you bloody stop?" Gene demanded. There was rainwater running down his face to gather on his eyelashes and Sam watched as he blinked furiously to clear it away. "I can hear the bloody cogs turning in your head from over here. You're giving me a sodding headache."

It was close enough to what Sam had been thinking inside that he had to bite back the smile that threatened to break free. Funny how Gene could always manage that, somehow, even when he was being the most infuriating superior Sam had ever had the misfortune of working under. "Just considering the options, boss," he said, guilelessly.

"Smartarse," Gene grumbled. "I told you to drop it." The words came out pointed, more so than the situation warranted, punctuated by Gene's grip tightening on Sam's shoulder. It was a warning, Sam thought, a definite reminder of who was in charge and, briefly, his mind flashed back to that first day, their first, fateful meeting. But this wasn't then; he wasn't the same man he had been. He tipped his chin up defiantly.

"With all due respect, _gov_ ," he said, "We have dropped it; we're doing it your way. You don't get to dictate what I think about."

"Want to bet?"

Sam blinked, fairly sure that his confusion was written across his face in capital letters. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Do you want to bet?" Gene enunciated every word, as clearly as though he was speaking to a drunk in the cells, and Sam scowled instinctively, his fingers twitching uselessly as though trying to grasp something. The sense in this conversation, perhaps.

"How on earth... you're bloody ridiculous, you know that?" he said, "Firstly, I never want to bet with you, and secondly, that's not a bet you can win."

Something flashed in Gene's eyes, there and gone too quickly for Sam to decipher it. "Cowardly, cowardly custard," he half-sang, and Sam threw his hands up in the air.

"You know what," he said, his exasperation bleeding over into his tone. " _Fine_. I'll take your unwinnable bet."

Gene grinned, sudden and sharp in a way that made something in Sam's belly swoop low, like the tumble over the edge of a rollercoaster. He leaned in, close enough that Sam to smell his aftershave, and the hint of whiskey on his breath.

"You forgot, DI Tyler," he murmured, low enough that Sam had to strain to make out what he was saying. "I don't make bets I can't win."


End file.
